Music Stirs the Heart of Man
by Jim Carnival
Summary: A new family moved into a tiny cottage in Transylvania. Duckula longed for the moment he could teach them a lesson. Little did he know he would return home with an empty stomach, all because of a little violin. ჯ One-shot.


**Note:** Another one-shot featuring one of the evil Duckula ancestors instead of the current sweetie-pie one.

* * *

Every night in Transylvania was the same. Black, with swirls of green fog like a Monet painting. Humid, congealing the air to a chilly sludge. Feeble storms kept the clouds tinged with yellow and crackling with static. Everything else was dead. Wind clacked dead tree branches together and stirred the dead leaves and crackled the dead grass.

This was all in order to Duckula. It had been just as normal to his predecessors. Nothing ever disrupted the darkness or dampness or deadness, night after night. Decade after decade. Even when villagers came and went, and the shape of the village changed, and generations grew and learned, nothing touched the eerie overlay of unease, fog and silence. He thought nothing ever could.

From the castle window towering above the village below, he had watched as a new family ushered into a hut on the outskirts closest to the castle. There was a father with a pipe, a fat little wife in petticoats, and a daughter with bows in her hair. They all smiled and exchanged what could only be compliments about the cottage and the village. When they went inside their new home and closed the door behind them, Duckula wondered if they knew.

Were they aware their lives were now as delicate as a thread above flame? People moved to the village as a last resort, only when money grew thin and other options crumbled before them. But did this smiling little family know they had pitched a proverbial tent on territory that wasn't theirs? Did they know that, if they made it through a night unscathed that they would have taken for granted elsewhere, it was only by his mercy?

The more he wondered, confounded by their naiveté, the more upset he became. He haunted the balcony, watching the tiny straw-capped cottage, until the moon snuggled behind a curtain of greasy clouds. One by one, candles and strings of garlic were placed into the windows of the houses below in preparation for the night. He turned, and like a shadow sifted through the dark. Not a leaf rustled under his step as he made his way to the only hut without a candle lighting its window.

This family would learn. He wouldn't take them all—it wouldn't be fair.

He crept closer to the cottage, keeping his cape tight around his shoulders. Tonight, only because they were oblivious and innocent, he would touch no one except the father. The strong father would recover, but their newfound fear would teach them to bar their doors and stay huddled in front of the fireplace in terror every night.

The thought was satisfying. Duckula pulled his cloak closer and sneaked around the back of the cottage, silent as a stalking cat. In the stillness of the night, voices murmured from within the cottage. The powdery haze of burning kindling curled from the chimney. Light and shadows wavered in the open window.

Excitement tingled through Duckula's nerves. He ran his tongue over his teeth and edged nearer until he crouched directly beneath the windowsill. The grass was cold and prickly, but discomfort was far buried beneath anticipation. Impatiently he tapped his fingers against his knee.

It was late. Past midnight. He glanced at the moon. Any time, the wife would bid the father goodnight and retire to bed. The father might linger a while and read or smoke, but soon he would blow out the candle. Then, when everything became as cold and silent as a tomb, Duckula could relish in the taste of undeserved fear and blood-tinged suffering.

Minutes limped by. The candle still burned. Duckula sat stiffly. Aches settled in his joints. He watched the clouds drag along, leaving smears in the sky. When would this poor, stupid family sleep?

Finally, just when Duckula considered shrouding himself in their window regardless of whether they slept, a noise clanged through the silence. He bristled and pressed against the wall. It was an odd noise—a tingly metallic sort of hum. As he listened, something else rustled, as though being drawn from a bag. Footsteps creaked over the cottage floor, closer. Duckula squeezed himself further against the wall and tucked his cape around himself.

He expected to hear the clank of the window shutters being pulled shut. For that, he would have been grateful. But a sound completely unlike that of shutters spilled from the window. It was high and shimmery, like a shawl of sound rolling free. Duckula's fingers went numb.

 _Music._

The father ran a horsehair bow over the frail strings of a poorly made violin, but the tremoring sound was nothing poor. It wavered through the night in lilting notes, lively and almost haunting in how clear and tangible it seemed.

Music hadn't entered the village for as long as Duckula could remember. Nobody found pleasure in music. They were too tense, too fearful and on edge to enjoy making music. Thus the days were filled with nothing but hushed chatter and the nights were lifeless. This sound had never been in Transylvania, sweetening its sour air.

Duckula sat, stunned. He barely breathed as the trembling violin notes rose above him. They were strong, pure as a breeze through mountain pines. They sounded like sunshine pouring through the spring leaves of dogwoods laden with blossoms. They were beautiful. They didn't belong in Transylvania.

Duckula steeled himself against shivers. The strangest sense of conflict swelled within him, as though one intention was grappling with another. He desperately wanted to claw his way into the window and lunge for the father to tear at his coat and tatter his collar. And yet, at the same time, he was so overcome with unease that he wished to slink back to his castle and never return. The unfamiliar feeling churning in his gut was overwhelming.

Minutes slogged by like hours. Duckula stewed in his misery as if in a vat of vinegar, more uncomfortable with every second. He dug his claws into the grass and squeezed. His heart pounded. His pulse throbbed in his head and made little black sequins swirl through his sight.

Just when he thought he should go mad with frustration and confusion and indignancy, the music lingered on a high whine that faded like a whisper. The bow scratched against the strings when it left them. The father slid the violin from its place secured between his cheek and shoulder, and the night became silent once again, as if never disturbed.

"Ach!" The father clicked his tongue and leaned out the window. "So quiet it is, here in this small village. It is so much moreso cozy than the city. Do you not think so, mein dear?"

The mother nodded, her tired eyes squinted with her gentle smile. "Don't worry, darling. We will love it here. I already feel safer than I did in the city, especially what with you being away so often." She stood. Her little hands swiped at her apron to smooth out the wrinkles.

"I believe I shall go upstairs to bed," she said, her voice slow and sleepy yet content. "It is dreadful late. There are clean quilts for you. Will you be up soon?"

"Of course, love." He busied himself with putting away his violin. "Would you like the window shutters closed?"

Her voice floated from halfway up the creaky stairs. "No. Open is fine; perhaps it will air out this choking smell of dust."

He waited until he no longer heard the padding of her footsteps on the floorboards. With a half-stifled sigh of complacency, he propped his hands on the windowsill and leaned forward. He inhaled until his lungs pressed against his ribs. The night smelled acrid, but everything was peaceful. Clouds were motionless as if painted in the sky. Not a twig on a bare tree shook. Leaves scattered on the ground didn't so much as rustle. Not a soul stirred.

He looked down at the thatch of crabgrass beneath the window. The yellowed stalks were flattened and in some places clumps had been torn up, tangled roots exposed. He squinted, examining the area in disapproval. The outside of the cottage would benefit from attention and care and considerable patience in doing so. Tomorrow, he decided, he would begin work on the tiny patch of lawn. Tulips, if they could grow, would be welcome spots of color.

He eased back inside. The chill began to lift from his shoulders as he thought of all the possibilities their new home offered. Happiness, peace, safety; everything a small family could desire. After tossing a warped stick of kindling into the fireplace, he took the candle dish and made his way up the stairs to join his wife. The sagging steps squeaked, groaned, and settled.

Outside, the yard was empty. All was still.


End file.
